


Music and Mischief

by ErrantNight



Series: Dragons and Daedra [5]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, BDSM, Bards, Bards College (Elder Scrolls), Bondage, Casual Sex, Daedric Artifacts (Elder Scrolls), Dremora (Elder Scrolls), Dremora - Freeform, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Plot With Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, daedric bdsm, daedric sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26560366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErrantNight/pseuds/ErrantNight
Summary: Threnod's been ordered by Sanguine to 'have fun' which she's not particularly used to. So she first decides to find out what it's like with a human man, and then she gets to learn a lot more about what exactly Daedra do for fun!
Relationships: Daedra Character(s)/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Male Dremora Character(s), female dovahkiin/bjorlam
Series: Dragons and Daedra [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1873642
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	1. Moorside Inn

**Author's Note:**

> Threnod gets a ride from Whiterun to Solitude, on a quest to 'have some fun'. She doesn't quite know how that works just yet but she figures having sex with the carriage driver is a good enough start.

“Are you alright back there?”

The trip from Whiterun to Solitude is long. Long enough that they need to stop for the night in Morthal. She’s half asleep when Bjorlam calls over his shoulder to check on her. She uncurls her fists, a hot flash of pain in her palms as her fingernails move out of the grooves they’d made in her skin. She holds them up in front of her face and is surprised she isn’t bleeding. 

It had taken her three days to get control of herself, waking up several times in the night to satisfy the urges of her dreams. In dreams she’s always frustrated, so close to the apex but never able to bring herself across. But she can handle it now, mostly, enough that she can think clearly and decide what she wanted to do.

“I’m fine,” she says, and realizes it isn’t even a lie. She doesn’t think she’s ever said those words and meant them. 

She’s not quite sure what’s she’s doing, heading to Solitude and trying her hand at music. She doesn’t know if she’ll be good at it, but then she’s heard an awful lot of dreadful bards and they all say they studied at the college in the capitol. Even the terrible ones seem to have fun though and she’s met a couple on the road who seemed happy enough. So if she’s going to learn to have fun, perhaps the place where people specifically learn to make people happy is a good a start as any.

They clatter into the Moorside and then look at one another as they see they’re the only ones there aside from the woman who’s sitting behind the bar with her head pillowed on her arms and the Orsimer bard who’s asleep and snoring gently on a bench beside the fire. His lute is just barely far enough away from the flames to avoid getting scorched. 

Bjorlam shrugs and Threnod goes up to tap gently on the counter to wake the innkeeper. The Redguard woman jerks her head up, “Yes, sorry, what?”

“Ow,” the woman pauses and touches her mouth, “damn, bit my tongue.”

She realizes there are people in front of her, customers no less, and perks up, “We don’t get anyone in here much, at all, er ever,” she rambles, “sorry. Usually people here come in and buy what they want to take home, uh, you need what now?”

Threnod’s mouth twitches at the corners and she stops fighting the urge to smile, another thing she’s getting used to, “We’d like to stay, if you’ve got room? Which I suppose you do.”

“Sure, it’s ten for the night, bed’s big enough for two even.”

Bjorlam interjects with a small wave, “Not the same room, we mean, we’re together but.. not.”

Threnod tilts her chin up to look at the carriage driver. He isn’t a bad looking man, although his cheeks are wind chapped and rough from days spent outside in all weather. His hands resting lightly on the counter are clean.

“We could be,” she says, her own cheeks heating as he glances down at her face and then looks back at the amused innkeeper. 

“I suppose… we could?” he says, an answer and a question as she puts the coins on the table and pays for dinner for both of them and a couple bottles of mead. It’s no Blackbriar, but it’s well enough, and perfectly pleasant shared over a meal. 

Bjorlam steals glances at Threnod as they eat and she feels heat rise in her face. She’s not certain why she made the offer, but she doesn’t think she’ll regret it. She’s due some fun, and that’s what she was told to do. She’s not actually sure what fun usually entails, in general, but she’s certain this counts.

There’s a long moment of silence when the plates are clean and bottles empty. Threnod’s knuckles are white on her knees and Bjorlam’s face has reddened again.

He rubs the back of his neck, “We don’t, I mean, if you don’t…”

She’s going pink herself, she can feel it, and when she swallows she’s very aware of the golden collar hidden beneath a black scarf she’d bought to replace the remnants of her torn shirt.

“Oh,” Bjorlam somehow manages to look even more chagrined, “I feel so stupid. I never even asked your name? I was babbling on when we started out, you know mine but I don’t know your _real_ name, it’s rude isn’t it?”

Threnod’s face lifts to meet his eyes, her own widening. How long has it been since someone asked? Aside from a certain Daedric Prince that is.

“Threnod,” she says, a rush of warmth filling her chest. She stands abruptly, and tugs are his sleeve. “Come on,” she says, walking towards the open door of one of the rooms.

She’s working her way out of her chain mail as soon as the door closes, has him backed against the wall before he has a chance to say another word.

He makes a strangled sound when she’s on her knees and she looks up the slender line of his body to find him biting down on his knuckles. 

Threnod feels one of those brand new smiles, fierce and painful in her cheeks, “She said they don’t usually get folk,” she says, “and even then I’m sure she’s heard her share.”

Her fingers tug gently at his belt and he turns his gaze away from the door and down at her. His expression softens and he fumbles at his waist and it’s barely been unbuckled before she’s unlacing them and running her fingers down his thighs as his breeches slide down to his ankles. 

He sucks in a gasp of air, hips bucking slightly as she rises up and presses a kiss just beneath his navel and her mouth is on him before he’s fully erect. 

This is new, feeling him lengthen to fill her mouth and the salt taste of sweat on her tongue isn’t unpleasant at all. She makes her own soft sound as his hands flutter at his sides and come to rest on her shoulders. 

One of her hands drops down to unlace her own breeches, tugging aside the silky cloth between her legs to find herself soaking wet. She can’t reach well from this angle, but it’s enough to touch and stroke herself as she sucks and licks what’s before her.

She takes him deep into her throat and he groans, fingers digging deep into her shoulders as he comes. She pulls away and he stumbles, his eyes half lidded as he reaches down for her. 

She lets him pull her up and they manage to get to the bed before his knees give out. 

Threnod writhes out of her breeches, kicking them to the floor as Bjorlam collapses beside her and runs a hand down her side. He’s gentle, so gentle, and frustratingly _slow_.

He slides back off the bed to kneel on the floor and grasps her hips. He shudders as he buries his face in her soft thigh, inhaling slowly and then pressing his lips to her pale skin. 

“How can you smell so good?” he murmurs, raising his head and running his hands up her belly to lift her shirt. She inches closer, bottom nearly off the bed entirely to let his hands cup her beasts, fingertips grazing hardened peaks. His slowness is torture but she thinks she likes it.

It’s ages before he works the catches on either side of her loincloth and he strokes his fingers delicately over the shining fabric and draws a frantic mew from her lips.

“No one is ever going to believe me, you know” he says, and that makes her laugh - a real one that bubbles up from her stomach and doesn’t sound like a rusty iron hinge.

He grins and there’s something sly in his expression, “Our secret then.”

“Please,” she bounces gently on the bed, “why are you so-” her words trail off in a sigh as he kisses the side of her knee, continuing by inches up her thigh and going still. She whines as she’s forced to wait, then gasps as his tongue finally touches her skin and glides up through warm wetness to find that perfect place and _sucking._

Her hips twitch and he laughs, sliding his tongue lower to plunge inside of her as he brings a hand up to tease her. She doesn’t bother to muffle his voice as she comes, the sound rising and cutting off as he unexpectedly grips her hips to hold her in place.

She shudders, toes curling, as he continues dragging out her now wordless scream. She can’t catch her breath, her body arcs up half off the bed and he _won’t stop._ Waves of cascading pleasure roll through her, leaving her trembling and weak when he finally raises his head.

He wipes his mouth on his wrist, looking down at her with a lazy grin. He rises up and drags her the scant inches he needs to slide inside of her. She doesn’t think any mortal man can achieve the intimidating size of Sanguine, but that makes it easier and he drives himself in to the hilt and hmms softly as he eases out - almost all the way - then back in slow shallow pulses.

It’s no time at all until she’s whimpering and pleading for him to go faster, harder, suffering a new kind of torture now. She twitches her hips up to meet him, desperately, but his grip on her thighs holds her maddeningly still and his lips curve again into a satisfied sort of smile.

It’s only when she stops trying to rush him that he picks up the pace, his breath catching on a strangled gasp as he pulls away and comes hot across her belly. He falls to the side, burying his face in the wool blanket, one arm curled around her knee and the other clutching the side of the bedstead.

For the first time in Threnod’s life, she spent the night curled against another warm body. She thought, as she fell asleep, that she’d like to repeat that experience…

-o0o-

It takes a bit longer than usual to get the rest of the way to Solitude, although the weather is fair and the roads are empty of anyone save a highwayman. Who didn’t make it more than a few moments after Threnod hopped out of the cart to take care of things. Thieves were less bold, usually, around the capitol. Something about a massive garrison of Imperial soldiers nearby and regular patrols putting a dampener on such things.

Threnod has talked more in the last two days than she has in the last two months, eventually climbing up on the buckboard beside Bjorlam and sharing a few bottles of mead she’d bought at the Moorside before they’d moved on. He doesn’t ask any questions about dragons, or about Sovngard, or about her being a Thane of Whiterun. They talk about the perils and beauties of traveling across their harsh country, about the odd things they’ve both seen. 

“I swear it’s true,” he says, “I’ve seen a headless man riding a ghostly horse, and believe it or not I’ve seen him more than once. The last time I unhitched Snowberry here and hopped on her back to follow him.”

“What happened?” Threnod asks, far too experienced in the wild and unexpected things she’d seen to question the existence of headless horsemen.

“It was at a distance mind, but I followed him to an old graveyard. Actually, it’s between Whiterun and Morthal, but I try to give that a wide berth now.”

“Did it just disappear?” she asks.

“Ah, well,” Bjorlam drains his bottle and tucks it by his feet, “I didn’t get close, like I said, but it seemed like he was fighting something and then I suppose defeated it. Maybe that’s what took his head off, who knows. I lit out of there when I saw some sort of skeletons starting to wander about.”

“I’ve seen a lot of odd things,” she says, “over the past year especially, as you can imagine.” Her mouth twists slightly, not quite a smile but the only expression she can muster to sum up all the strange and terrible ways her life has constantly changed over a lifetime.

“I wouldn’t ask,” Bjorlam pats her knee, “it’s none of anyone’s business, and don’t let anyone say otherwise. I bet you get a lot of that already. I hear the guard talk about wondering what it would be like to be the Dragonborn but it never looked like something I’d ask for.”

“It’s really not,” Threnod shrugs, “but I think I’m retiring. You think anyone will recognize me out of armor?” 

“To be honest, I don’t think so,” Bjorlam answers, “I’ve been traveling these roads for twenty years and I’ve noticed people tend to see what they want to see.”

“I hope you’re right,” she says, “I don’t plan on going off adventuring anytime soon, and I really don’t want people to know who I am and try to talk me into it.”

Even at a leisurely pace they come to the stables outside of Solitude just before dark.

“Tell the guards at the gate that I’m down here please,” he asks as he helps her to climb down from his seat, “it’s lonely going back alone. I’ll nap in the back til someone comes along.”

She nods, then leans close. He bends down to hear what she has to say and then laughs so hard he almost falls as she whispers, “No one will _ever_ believe you,” instead of goodbye.


	2. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sent off to find King Olaf's Verse, Threnod supposes it's worth it to get into the college and to enjoy a night of debauchery involving spiced wine and burning effigies. She finds even more fun in an old barrow than anyone has a right to...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long, 2020 was ten years long I swear and I'm hoping I can keep up my energy to get things done for all my fandoms!
> 
> I would really like a beta if anyone is interested! I feel this isn't as good because I don't have one now!

For all that everyone is singing songs about her, Threnod is pleasantly surprised to discover that not one single person in the Bard’s College knows who she is. It probably helps that she’s dumped her chain mail in the bottom of her satchel and put everything else on top; even with a sword on her belt she’s gloriously anonymous. Who doesn’t go armed these days, anyway? 

Somehow it must be in the way she walks that lets people know she’s competent with that weapon and probably a lot more likely to survive in some far flung dungeon than anyone else in residence… so she gets asked a favor. A very dangerous favor, one she really doesn’t want to do if she doesn’t have to… but Viarmo had actually asked nicely, explaining that although they often ask potential students to do small errands and tasks in exchange for admittance… well, not many of them showed up looking like they could handle the one thing no one else felt up to doing.

It was a familiar sort of task, one she’d been doing for years before she’d been conscripted into hero-dom… She shakes her head and shoves that word deep down where she won’t be bothered by it. She’s getting better at that, the longer she goes insisting on telling people her name. And, of course, she’d been told to have fun… Getting King Olaf’s Verse and then having a drunken party where they burn an effigy and sing sounds, well, _fun_ definitely.

Dead Man’s Respite doesn’t sound like a pleasant place, so she stops and exchanges her empty potion bottles for fresh at a small discount. She always tries to hold onto the empties, most alchemists appreciate not having to buy so many of them when most customers seem to toss them aside when they’re finished. 

When she gets inside the barrow she sees how right she is and groans when her eyes fall on the familiar shape of a dragon’s claw and the ghostly figure that silently beckons her forward. 

She follows reluctantly, drawing her sword. Her free hand falls on the long stem of the carved rose on her other hip, biting gently at the inside of her cheek and curiosity nips back at her as the pad of one finger catches on a thorn. She sticks her finger in her mouth, a terrible habit, and continues on into the dungeon. She doesn’t want to waste it, most artifacts like this only summon something for a minute or so and eventually burn out if you use them too often. 

She’s expecting the traps, she’s almost used to the giant venomous spiders, she’ll never quite get used to the Draugr. When she was a child the bitch who ran the orphanage had told her stories about how the Draugr woke and gathered grave goods and offerings to distribute to the dead - they were the ones who tended the fires and lit the lamps, who reset the traps to protect the dead who hadn’t been warriors in life. Even if you struck them down, they’d be back at it in a few days. And, of course, they ate little children and dragged their bodies into the barrow to slave away their undeath forever.

She follows the ghost, the likelihood of it having the location of the missing music was fairly high as she creeps through the old ruin and hadn’t found it anywhere along the way. It’s always annoying when you’re following any kind of incorporeal being while it can go through locked doors without you.

The Draugr pose a problem, and she’s never been much of a one for bows. Being quite small for a Nord means most bows are too tall - likely if it weren’t for her dragon blood she’d ever have been able to wield her sword as strong as she does. So, she has to sneak up on them in their niches if she wants to try and put them down before they wake up and attack. However this doesn’t help very much with the ones who are already walking around.

Some of them were… a bit more aggressive than others. Once the power inside of her had been unlocked, she’d often screamed back when the Speakers among the dead would loose their own power from dry dusty throats. But it was a bit more difficult when her sword has been Shouted right out of her grip and she can’t find it anywhere.

She’s backed against a wall just out of sight, trying to control her pounding heart and working through the words she knows and wondering if any of them will do much good against a _Deathlord_. She casts around desperately, trying to see even the smallest glint of light on metal to indicate where her sword had been flung.

The moment before she decides to make a run for it her finger throbs and she remembers she does have another weapon of a sort. She pulls the wooden Rose free from the sheath she’s made for it and holds it out in front of her, passing her will into it as she would any other magical device. Momentarily a searing red light explodes forth from the petals to materialize into a red and black armored Dremora.

He tilts his head in her direction, red and black markings on his face twisting as a slow smile tugs at his lips to bare sharp teeth. Only a few seconds of acknowledgment before he spins about and begins to lay waste to the Draugr Lord and the lesser draugr around him. She’s summoned Dremora before, with scrolls, and they’re usually annoyed at the interruption of whatever they’d been doing on their plane - staying only the brief alloted time they’re bound to their task and then growling at her as they vanished again.

This time is different. The sounds of battle continue for several minutes at least, the Dremora obviously taking his time as he hunts down each and every enemy in the area and doesn’t stop until he’s finished. Perhaps, she thinks, the summoning lasts longer since the Rose was Lord Sanguine’s gift to her personally.

The Daedra has wandered back in her direction, heavy mace leaning against his shoulder as he stalks back and forth in front of her. She swallows as he releases the weapon and it dissipates, his hands coming up to pull the sharp edged helmet from his head and dropping it on the cracked floor with a dull thud.

“Ah,” he says, “Threnod, isn’t it?” His voice is low and rough, a strange accent twisting her name on his tongue as though he hasn’t spoken her language in a thousand years - and that might be true. 

She straightens and nods, her own throat going dry as he smiles again and his eyes move from her face down to her chainmail covered chest and lower, gaze pinning her in place as he steps closer. She’s quickly pinned against the wall in truth as he chuckles quietly, the sound echoing through the silent barrow. 

He flicks his hands to the side and, just like any other conjured armor, the metal plates shrouding his body dissipate in a wreathing swirl of smoke and flecks of glowing embers. The black and red markings visible on his face and hands curl around the rest of his bared skin, his body is lean and scarred. She can see that some of the cuts are from wounds but more of them are in deliberate designs excised into his flesh in jagged patterns and runes. She’s seen scarification before, mostly on Orsimer and once on a Redguard warrior’s face and hands.

Threnod is only about as tall as his chest and has to tilt her head back to try and look into the Dremora’s face. His amused expression morphing into curiosity.

“There’ve been wagers, you see,” the Dremora says as he hooks two fingers into the top of her mail shirt and jingles it in an obvious demand, “about who would get a chance to… visit you first. I won, it seems, and I’m going to take my reward now. For services rendered, you understand.”

“I do,” Threnod murmurs, working the heavy mail over her head and wincing as it pulls on her hair and drops it to one side in a more or less neat pile. Her shirt follows and she finds herself shivering in the cold, regardless of the twin braziers at either end of the room. They give off more light and smoke than heat but she hadn’t noticed until she’d begun removing layers. She’s not fast enough, apparently, in unlacing the leather cord closing her trousers. His fingernail slides through it like the leather were an errant thread, splitting the laces into pieces and watching as she fumbles the leather enforced canvas down around her ankles. 

Her breast band and loincloth follow, normal linen today… she hadn’t been expecting, well, company. Her cheeks flame red, eyes lowering and finding the length of his member rising to meet her instead of staring at the floor.

Her tongue moves over her suddenly dry lips.

“Eager little thing aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” she can’t stop the sigh at the end of her reply and his teeth flash in the firelight once more.

“So we’ve heard,” he purrs, stripping the soft cloth away from her neck to bare the the golden collar that Sanguine had conjured into place and sliding both of his hands around her throat. He gives the smallest squeeze, thumbs pressing on either side of her neck and she goes entirely still. Fear thrills through her, but at the same time she can’t stop her knees going weak with need. For a brief moment her vision goes black as his grip holds her upright.

He releases her abruptly and she’s on her knees, anticipation curling in her stomach and rolling lower as his fingers run through her hair and make a fist. A small pained sound whimpers from her mouth as he shakes her head back and forth as his free hand slides up and down his cock. He’s not as terrifyingly large as her… _their_ master, but it’s thoroughly intimidating all the same - particularly without the relaxation of mead and wine to soften her. He lets her go and bends his knee and rifles through the pile of cloth at their feet, twining the longest piece of cut lacing between his fingers.

“Turn around,” he says, the amusement seeming to vanish from his voice and countenance as he slaps the side of her head. Her sharp cry at the unexpected blow bounces back along the twisting corridors, fading back into silence as she jerks away from him.

Her first instinct is anger, eyes narrowing as she scrambles back. Her hands find her empty sheath and she remembers she hasn’t even looked for her fallen weapon…

She falters as his own angry glare roves over her bare skin and she’s suddenly uncertain…

“You will obey me,” he says, flicking his hand toward her face threateningly, “as you would obey your Lord. The covenant,” he says, “is unbreakable - but you, little one, are not.”

Firelight flickers over his face, reflecting back in his black eyes. She swallows a lump in her throat, heart thudding in her chest and pulse fluttering in her throat. 

“Alright,” she drags the word out of her tight throat, her eyes burning as she feels unexpected tears welling up. 

“That’s better,” he says reaching down and grabbing her hair again, “now be a good little thrall and put your hands behind your back.”

He walks behind her as she obeys, feeling the thin leather cord wrap around her wrists and gasps as it’s pulled painfully tight. 

“Spread your legs,” the Dremora taps the inside her thighs with a finger, “no, wider than that,” he directs until her muscles are twinging in discomfort and her sex is nearly touching the filthy floor. She cringes as the thought and the Dremora makes an amused sound, “you’d lick this spot clean if I told you to slave, but I won’t order that sort of thing when I have better uses for your mouth.”

There’s a moment of silence, “Say, ‘thank you, lord K’tarn’.”

“Th… thank you,” she says, catching herself and forcing the volume of her voice above a whisper, “thank you, lord K’tarn.”

“That’s a good little slave. It doesn’t matter who you are to anyone on this wretched plane of Mundus - you’re not a _hero_ , you’re not a _descendant_ of the gods, you’re an _obedient thrall_ and belong on your knees amongst your betters. Meaning, of course, we undying of the Daedra and especially beneath the heel of our Lord Sanguine who you will never hesitate to obey. Yes?”

“I would never,” she gasps out as he walks around to her front, whatever else she might say is cut off as he thrusts himself into her open mouth and then more slowly works his way into her throat. 

“Of course you won’t,” he says, his rough voice deepening and trailing into a soft groan. 

He runs his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her head and drawing himself out to give her space to breathe and then beginning a rough rhythm that leaves her half sobbing and gasping until he finally pulls back and growls down at her, “Keep you mouth open, yes just like that.”

He spends himself on her tongue and wipes the the rest of the mess onto her cheek. 

“Don’t you dare waste any of that,” he smiles, “let me see.”

She closes her mouth, eyes rolling back in her head as she swallows and then opens her mouth again to show she’d done as she was told.

“Very nice, now what do you say?”

She tilts her head back and blinks slowly, “Thank you lord K’tarn.”

“Stand up,” he says, then laughs when she nearly collapses - legs aching from the long held position trying to keep her sex from touching the stone beneath her. He grabs her by the back of the golden collar and drags her to her feet, then higher until she’s on her tip toes and trying desperately to breathe. 

He lets her feet touch the floor, pushing her head down and guiding her away through the empty halls of the barrow until he’s found what he wants. From the corner of her eye she sees him sweep the scattered tools and scrolls from atop an offering table, an urn crashing to pieces on the floor before he lifts her up to lay face down on top of it. 

“Beg me to fuck you,” he runs his fingertips down her back, trailing down her sides and then digging his nails into her hips. She gasps at the sharp pain, knowing without looking he’s drawn blood. 

“Tell me you’ll let me do whatever I want so long as I let you come.”

She squirms as he presses between her legs, so much hotter than a human man, so much better now that she’s had both. 

“Please,” she yelps as his nails claw deeper into her skin and she can feel her blood now running down to drip on the table beneath her, “fuck me, and…,” she stills and then writhes back against him, “hurt me, whatever you need, I’ll let you. No, no I want you to hurt me!” Her eyes are wide, this new horizon opening up inside of her and uncurling a white hot need in her belly to spread through her body. 

The nails digging into her hips drag her backward and she moans, “Yes, please!”

“You’re such a good learner little thrall, I’ll give you what you want then since you asked so nicely.”

He thrusts himself inside of her, not waiting even a second to let her become accustomed to his size and she screams - all thought blotted out as he grabs her bound hands in one fist and the back of her collar with the other and begins rocking in and out of her with a punishing speed.

He’s laughing softly as she cries out, coming so hard that she can barely breathe between screams - but it doesn’t stop, the next wave of pleasure bleeds into the previous one, “Just look at you,” he’s growling, “in the hall of your ancestors, a wonton slave giving yourself to a demon.”

He slows, thrusts harder even than before, draws slowly out and releases her collar to let her speak, “How does it feel?”

She whines quietly, throat raw from screaming and tears running down her cheeks, “I… I love it, please don’t stop.”

He draws away, sliding out of her and eliciting a whimper. “I’m not done yet,” he says, “and I don’t take orders from thralls.”

The tie around her wrists loosens, “I’m only undoing this so you don’t lose your hands,” he explains, flipping her over and patting her cheek, “if you move your arms or try to touch me or yourself you’ll regret it.” 

“Now, where were we? Oh, yes, pain. Not too much, this time, because we wouldn’t want you getting used to it. You’ll have to earn it next time.”

She fights to stay still, to not raise her head or move her hands as he steps away silently and disappears from her peripheral vision. Her ragged breathing catches and slows as she waits, wondering what would happen if she did move but she realizes she’s more afraid that he’ll stop and leave her rather than what he’ll do to her when he returns.

When he comes back he has a handful of… things, soft sounds of whatever they are being arranged beside her. When she tries to look he slaps her, hard enough to whip her head to the side and further hide the plans he’s made.

“Ah, no,” he bares his teeth at her, “you’ll just have to wait for the _surprise._ ”


	3. Surprises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would really like a beta if anyone is interested! I feel this isn't as good because I don't have one now!
> 
> (I added some things here 1/20 because it suddenly came to me that it would be interesting down the line)

“You do like surprises, don’t you?” he asks, not waiting for her to answer before he chooses something and holds it up, “do you know what this is?”

It’s a slender bit of metal with a small blade at the end, black with age, and her eyes widen.

“It’s, ah…” she swallows, then admits “I don’t know.”

“Hm, I’m not surprised, why would you recognize embalming tools?”

He spins it between his fingers and then slowly lowers it down to run across her belly, the cold metal rising chill bumps against her skin and causing Threnod to instantly break out into a sweat.

“What if I were to cut you with this, I think you’d scream beautifully,” he says, leaning over her and pressing the small blade against her cheek. He looks deep into her frightened eyes and laughs, “I won’t, not with this. It’s, what’s the word the mortal healers use? _Unsanitary_ ?” 

He seems genuinely curious whether he’s used the correct word and she nods rapidly, “You’re too weak for that sort of game, with that blade.”

He sets the instrument back down and hmms softly, “So, knives are out, or that one anyway. You do still want me to do whatever I desire yes? To hurt you, to make you feel… good?” The word is unfamiliar on his tongue and his lips twitch in amusement before reaches for her hand and brings it up to his mouth, “like this?”

His tongue bathes the inside of her wrist, then his eyes close and he gives his own soft moan as he sinks sharp canines into her skin. Her back arches against the stone table as an electric pain runs from the wound up her arm and through her body, then it’s over as quickly as it’s begun and he’s licking the small wound that looks for all the world like a vampire’s kiss. 

“That was,” she watches as he tilts his head back, throat moving slightly as he swallows, “interesting.”

The word is stretched out, sibilant.

“You don’t taste, _quite_ , like a mortal,” he cocks his head to one side, hands clutching at her thighs now and pulling her hips up until she’s resting all her weight on her shoulders and neck as he presses his mouth almost gently at the apex. His tongue laps curiously at first, then deeper and more fervently. 

She clutches at the table as he makes a sound that rumbles up into her own chest and matches it with her own as she bucks against his grip, his fingernails cutting into her thighs as she comes.

Finally, as she shivers in aftershock, he raises his head and licks his lips, “Not like a mortal at all,” he says, “what a gift you’ve been given already, little slave.”

He releases her legs and leans his weight on her shoulders as he enters her once more, “You’re going to _ruin_ mortal men,” he laughs as he comes himself. 

He picks up another of the things he’d gathered, his cock still thick inside of her as he holds it up. It glows faintly with an inner light, a small soul gem resting between his thumb and forefinger. He holds it closer to her face, rotating it slowly, “It took me a bit to find one that will suit my purposes,” he says, “no sharp edges.”

A purely sinister smile lights his face, “this time.”

She shudders as he slides his member free, then gasps as cold crystal slips inside of her in his place. “That’s,” she whimpers, “I don’t know…”

“I think you’ll get used to it,” he says, leaving her shivering on the table and then reappearing to slide her loincloth up her legs and tying it in place. He dresses her, tying the broken laces of her breeches in place with tight knots she can tell she’ll have to cut free.

He raises a hand and moves it swiftly by her face, making her flinch, before gently cupping her chin, “Don’t you dare take that out until you’ve finished your little task here. Perhaps next time one of us will bring you a better on, if you’re a good and obedient thrall.” His words were slow and emphatic as he tosses her chain shirt on her stomach and steps back, vanishing in a swirl of darkness and fire.

She lays there, shivering and twitching, feeling the icy gem slowly warm with her body heat. Only then can she bring herself to move, rising and then falling back to her knees. The single step had made it move inside of her, aching and full, and she makes a frustrated sound as she finds the laces far too tight to slide her hand down to toy between her legs. It takes some time to slip her armor back on, then more time to finally find the sword that had been flung from her hand. 

By the time she gets back to Solitude, catching a different carriage from Morthal, preparations are tentatively underway for the festivities. Her reappearance in the front room of the college is met with cheers as she holds up the lost verse, cheeks flaming red as she’s slapped on the back and shown to somewhere she can collapse while they work out the missing parts and promise her a hot bath and food before she sleeps. 

She nearly falls asleep in the bath, then drags herself into a bed and carefully slides her fingers between her legs - finally able to relax and let the soul gem slip into her palm. She falls asleep with it still held in her hand, shoving it into her bag when she wakes - finding she’s slept through the night and most of the day.

The festival, loud and full of rowdy singing of raunchy ballads long after the verse is sung and the effigy of King Olaf - who she’ll never admit to fighting his shade, and of course the promised spiced wine.

She’s well into her cups as she’s swept into a dance by Rorlund, who she only vaguely remembers is the priest of the temple of the 8 here in the city. He lets her go when both of them, quite drunk, nearly fall into a fire pit. She’s taking a long drink from her cup when he suddenly quips, "I believe Sanguine would be pleased with this festival." 

She can’t help it, she chokes on her drink and he pounds her back as she insists she’s fine. 

Why in the world would an established priest of the Divines say such a thing? She stares at him as he stumbles off, finding her own bed somewhere near dawn…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's really something he says in the game if you speak to him during the festival and it's never explained!

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you're enjoying these, I'm having a lot of fun writing them. It's been getting me through a rough time to write something like this to be honest.


End file.
